Beneath the Cross of Jesus (Clephane)

Beneath the cross of Je­sus

I fain would take my stand—

The sha­dow of a migh­ty rock

Within a wea­ry land—

A home with­in the wil­der­ness

A rest up­on the way

From the burn­ing of the noon­tide heat

And the bur­den of the day.

O safe and hap­py shel­ter!

O re­fuge tried and sweet!

O tryst­ing place where Heav­en’s love

And Heav­en’s jus­tice meet!

As to the ex­iled pa­tri­arch

That won­drous dream was giv’n

So seems my Sav­ior’s cross to me—

A lad­der up to Heav’n!

There lies be­neath its sha­dow

But on the fur­ther side

The dark­ness of an op­en grave

That gapes both deep and wide;

And there

be­tween us

stands the cross

Two arms out­stretched to save

Like a watch­man set to guard the way

From that eter­nal grave.

Upon that cross of Je­sus

Mine eye at times can see

The ve­ry dy­ing form of One

Who suf­fered there for me.

And from my strick­en heart

with tears

Two won­ders I con­fess—

The won­ders of re­deem­ing love

And my own worth­less­ness.

I take

O cross

thy sha­dow

For my abid­ing place;

I ask no oth­er sun­shine

Than the sun­shine of His face;

Content to let the world go by

To know no gain nor loss—

My sin­ful self my on­ly shame

My glo­ry all

the cross!

Dim eyes for ev­er closed

For house­hold tears or mirth;

A pale face look­ing up to God—

And so

fare­well to earth!

Out to the light be­yond

Out of the pain and fear;

Out to the up­per glo­ry there

Out of the dark­ness here!

Out of the land of death

Out of the land of doubt

To en­ter in the in­ner court

And nev­er more go out!

The heal­ing and the balm

The crown up­on the brow

The tri­al o’er

the tri­umph won—

O God! to have this now!

Not so

O Lord

not this

The boon I ask from Thee;

But for Thy strength to do the work

My God hath set for me.

No faith­ful serv­ant he

Who seeks for rest be­fore

Who faints ere yet the day is done

And the ev­en­ing work is o’er.

I ask a liv­ing faith

Within me to abide;

I ask Thee for a ho­ly heart

And a Spir­it pu­ri­fied;

Two will­ing hands to serve

A pa­tient mind to bear

And hal­lowed

ear­nest lips to speak

For Je­sus ev­ery­where.

Not till the night hath come

And stars shine out on high

The dark­ness draw­eth o’er the earth

The work­ing time is by.

Then fold the wea­ry hands

Upon the qui­et breast;

Thou faith­ful one

thy work is done—

Now en­ter in­to rest!